


March Sister Suffragette

by DroughtofApathy



Series: A Thousand Lifetimes [27]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 20th Century, F/F, Force Feeding and other tortures, Lesbian Character of Color, Prison, Suffrage, Women Being Awesome, hunger strikes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 01:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17736173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DroughtofApathy/pseuds/DroughtofApathy
Summary: Dorothy Leighton occupied a rather tenacious role in the Woman’s Suffrage Movement. An immigrant from the Orient, she’d had her name changed to something far more American by the border officials back when she was barely old enough to talk, let alone understand.When the National American Woman’s Suffrage Association began gaining traction in New York, she marched right down to Carrie Chapman Catt’s headquarters to offer her expertise.And when Alice Paul forcibly stormed away from NASAW to create the National Women’s Party, Dorothy hastened after her.





	March Sister Suffragette

Dorothy Leighton occupied a rather tenacious role in the Woman’s Suffrage Movement. An immigrant from the Orient, she’d had her name changed to something far more American by the border officials back when she was barely old enough to talk, let alone understand. She’d been one of the lucky ones, everyone said. Her family came from money, and had many good American connections. She grew up well-bred and well-educated. So, when the National American Woman’s Suffrage Association began gaining traction in New York, she marched right down to Carrie Chapman Catt’s headquarters to offer her expertise.

And they hadn’t quite known what to do with her. This educated Asian spinster far past the appropriate marrying age. She wasn’t a negro, that much was certain. But she wasn’t white either. Not that someone as prim and proper as Carrie Chapman Catt would have put it like that. But they needed someone with Dorothy’s talents even if none of them could understand why this woman, who would not be able to vote even if they succeeded would want to devote her time to this.

Though far from a skilled orator, she had a way with the written word, easily articulating NAWSA’s goals and grievances both logically and empathetically. Many a pamphlet went on to be ghost written by Dorothy Leighton. A thankless job indeed. Even with her Americanized name, Dorothy wasn’t permitted to be the name of the women’s movement. Or any name.

So, when Alice Paul forcibly stormed away from NASAW to create the National Women’s Party, Dorothy hastened after her. Though Dorothy knew the NWP was hardly progressive when it came to allowing non-white women to fully participate – just ask Ida B. Wells or Mary Church Terrell – they didn’t quite shove Dorothy Leighton behind a typewriter with no hope for anything else.

Still, Dorothy found there were benefits to being a diminutive Asian woman in the headquarters of the group that, she was certain, would get women the right to vote. After the initial surprise at seeing someone so different freely moving about, most of the other women tended to overlook Dorothy.

Far from being insulted, Dorothy embraced her near-invisibility, opening her ears to any and all whispers. More than once, forgetting Dorothy was in the room or simply not caring, the others had let slip little tidbits and secrets.

Dorothy knew all about how Lucy Burns had been sneaking out to see a mystery man, how Carrie Chapman Catt and her “dear friend” Mary Garrett Hay were a little more than just friends, how Mollie Steeler’s husband was fooling around behind her back. Dorothy heard it all.

Which was why it wasn’t surprising when she overheard Hettie Gage and Maggie Allen snidely whispering about Theresa Starrett. In and of itself this wasn’t so unusual. Perhaps more so than Dorothy, Theresa Starrett was decidedly out-of-place in this sector of the movement. When Alice had split, everyone expected Theresa to remain loyal to Carrie Catt.

Theresa Starrett was a wealthy, old-fashioned, strait-laced, sort firmly still entrenched in the past in many respects. Many of Alice Paul and Lucy Burns’ more modern and radical ideas had made her balk, and though she made her disapproval known she’d never tried to stop them or return to Carrie Catt.

It wasn’t only her old-school ideas that made her stick out from the more modern suffragists. It was rumored Theresa still laced up the old corsets rather than the newer models, and she had an elitist style about her that made many of the staunchly middle-class, and nearly all the working-class, women regard her with derision.

The women who had devoted their entire time to Alice Paul’s NWP didn’t particularly like Theresa Starrett as a person, but no one could deny she commanded a certain aura of respect and fear, and she was indispensable to the cause. That she hadn’t personally endeared herself to anyone didn’t seem to bother the unshakable woman.

It wasn’t unusual to hear gossip and judgment about Theresa Starrett so Dorothy purposefully shifted her attention elsewhere. This was one subject she wanted nothing to do with. But evidently neither Maggie nor Hattie knew anything about subtly because they didn’t bother to lower their voices.

“Can you believe she had the absolute gall to comment on Elizabeth’s new dress? As though she was better than the lot of us because she dresses oh-so-perfect,” Maggie said, fanning herself with a stack of pamphlets.

“I know, the absolute nerve,” Hattie agreed. “Like she doesn’t look like some expensive hussy with that rouge she paints on her lips every day.” Maggie snorted with laughter, making Dorothy curl her fist.

“Oh, stop! She has to put that lipstick on, Hattie,” Maggie said between peals of laughter. “Otherwise who knows if we’d even know she’s a woman! Why, her voice is positively husky! Who knows? Not like anyone’s ever seen Theresa Starrett without her clothes on!” That sent both women into another fit of giggles.

Like Dorothy said, nothing unusual. The small woman just quietly sat there cleaning her glasses and trying not to be too noticeable. This always worked and she knew soon enough Maggie and Hattie would go back to doing something actually useful.

Instead, Maggie glanced over and immediately waved. Dorothy looked at her suspiciously, but didn’t leave just yet.

“Dorothy, what do you think?” Maggie asked, genuinely curious. “I mean, surely living in the same room as Theresa Starrett means you must know more than we do. Oh, do tell us. Is she truly a woman then?” Hattie giggled, looking at the small Asian with interest.

“Really,” Dorothy said primly. “Ladies, we have women standing outside for hours on end in the freezing cold. I would think you’d devote your time to something less frivolous than discussing what may or may not be underneath Theresa Starrett’s skirts.”

Looking sufficiently chastised, Maggie and Hattie hurriedly moved to go do something presumably more useful, nearly running smack dab into the woman in question. Wide-eyed, Maggie edged around Theresa before running off as fast as was proper. Hattie gave both women a weak smile before following suit.

Dorothy nodded politely to Theresa, face betraying nothing of what had just occurred. Before Theresa could inquire just what had happened, she turned her attention back to her typewriter. Those pamphlets wouldn’t write themselves.

Really, the only thing Maggie and Hattie had gotten right in their little gossip session was that yes, Dorothy and Theresa did share a room. Headquarters was packed and for all the women who didn’t have children or husbands to return to, they could choose to live in the building. When it had come time to decide whom would be rooming with whom, no one had wanted to subject themselves to Theresa Starrett. Not that anyone was rude enough to say it to her face.

Dorothy, an equally undesirable roommate, had awkwardly made brief eye-contact with the taller woman, sealing the deal before it could get anymore embarrassing. Which was how Dorothy and Theresa found themselves existing with each other on an intimate level neither had been previously familiar with.

It was nearly midnight when Dorothy at last retired upstairs. Her back ached from hunching over that damnable typewriter, and yes, perhaps the sense of satisfaction and thanks in the NWP was better than with NASAW, but it didn’t make the ache any less prominent.

She opened the door to her room, and immediately caught a brief glimpse of Theresa’s bare torso before the startled woman turned away, displaying a pale white back riddled with red marks from the tight corset.

“Oh, it’s only you,” Theresa said after Dorothy apologized and closed the door behind her. She turned back, still pressing the recently removed corset to her breasts. She wore only her drawers, but still had her hair pinned carefully up and her lipstick on.

“Let me,” Dorothy offered, pulling out the vanity chair. Theresa nodded and sat down. She put aside the corset, but crossed her arms across her small breasts. Dorothy stood behind her, carefully removing the many pins. Each morning Dorothy watched Theresa painstakingly tame her naturally curly red hair into an elegant pompadour. She herself had never bothered to replicate it with her own long hair, instead opting to wrap a long braid around itself and pin it up.

“I am sorry you had to hear what those women said today,” Dorothy said combing through Theresa’s thick hair with her fingers. She pretended not to notice Theresa dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Yes, well,” Theresa said slowly. “I know I shouldn’t let their words get to me, but… Oh, Dorothy. It was just humiliating. To hear them laughing about my…about me in such a crude and insulting manner.”

“They’re only being needlessly cruel,” Dorothy agreed, braiding the curly hair back. “Honestly, as though genitals are the only criteria for being a woman. A ridiculous notion indeed. And I, for one, find your voice perfectly fine.”

Theresa smiled weakly, already feeling better. “Really,” she asked huskily. “Only ‘fine’? Not – what was it you said to describe it just last week? – ‘undeniably alluring and infallibly arousing’ I think were your exact words.” She smirked at Dorothy in the mirror.

Dorothy sighed. She should have known her words would inflate Theresa’s already sizable ego even more. She stepped back, turning so Theresa could help her with the tiny buttons up the back of her dress.

Theresa continued to smirk, lips still a sinfully attractive red, as she pressed hear mostly nude form up against Dorothy’s back as she worked at the buttons.

Ten minutes later Dorothy was also down to just her drawers and her hair had been unwound from the tight bun, trailing down her spine, the tail of the plait brushing her posterior.

“I believe I can rectify any lingering upsets those biddies caused,” Dorothy said, her own voice becoming almost as husky as Theresa’s normal tone. She teasingly pulled at the ribbon holding her drawers in place, letting them pool on the ground.

Theresa groaned, pulling Dorothy towards her bed. Though hardly large enough to comfortably fit two grown women, they’d not had any particularly disastrous incidents. Luckily for them, Dorothy was decidedly not a normal sized woman, and even Theresa’s impressive height didn’t quite even things out.

The smaller woman gladly straddled Theresa’s hips, kissing at her pale neck. Well, Carrie Catt wasn’t the only suffragist who had a ‘dear friend’ after all. Theresa flushed, tilting her head back to give Dorothy better access. She had to physically bite her lip to keep from making any unseemly noises. The walls in this old building were ever so thin.

Sometimes, Dorothy liked to imagine she and Theresa would be able to make love in a king-sized bed in a house all to themselves where she was free to enjoy the sounds of Theresa’s pleasure without fear of being heard and ruined. Because Dorothy knew that if anyone found out about their illicit nighttime activities they would be utterly ruined.

It was for that reason neither woman drew out the other’s pleasure too long even if they both knew it would have been so much better. Dorothy had no issue being quiet, but Theresa found it much more difficult to retain her usual strict composure when her lover was between her legs. They’d been doing this for so long that Dorothy knew just how to make Theresa shudder and shake with need.

Surprisingly enough, it had been Theresa, the epitome of staunch and proper behavior, who’d been the initial aggressor in their…arrangement. Once Theresa made her interest known Dorothy had been all too happy to express just how attractive she’d found the other woman, to Theresa’s utmost relief.

The redhead had had an inkling of Dorothy’s feelings in the beginning, and she knew the smaller woman could never be the one to make the initial approach. Far less influential, and occupying a precarious role in the movement, Dorothy had everything to lose. Being an Oriental, being of much lesser means than Theresa, being incredibly awkward around most people, Dorothy could never have pursued Theresa so instead the other woman took the leap.

Dorothy would always admire and adore Theresa’s utter bravery that first time she made the bold move to kiss her.

“Do you ever wish we could love without having to constantly hide it?” Theresa asked as the two women held each other in the afterglow of their lovemaking.

“Too often to be considered proper,” Dorothy said readily, kissing Theresa chastely. “But I know it will not happen in this lifetime. For now, I wish to place my efforts into the vote, and perhaps after join Miss. Wells-Barnett and her people. After all, I am not so naïve to believe Alice and Lucy’s amendment would help me in any way.”

Theresa stroked Dorothy’s hair sadly. She knew this to be true and every day it filled her with inspiration and wonder to see this woman work tirelessly to promote the right to vote in spite of the reality. But just because Dorothy understood the path to her own vote would be longer than white women’s, it did not mean she liked it or accepted it. Theresa knew Dorothy had been communicating regularly with the NACW, working towards rights for women like them once white women got the right to vote.

“I will help in any way I can,” Theresa promised, feeling her eyes beginning to droop. “I shan’t rest until you can accompany me to each and every poll.” Dorothy smiled tiredly and reluctantly dragged herself out of Theresa’s warm bed, away from her strong arms. If anything happened, they could not be caught together in bed. Though Theresa made a noise of protest, she loosened her hold and reached for her nightdress.

And for a time, everything was going…well, not well exactly. But things were adequate. Until the war happened. Until wartime changed the rules. Until suddenly the picketers were no longer interesting spectacles to quietly laugh at and move on. Until suddenly they were traitors in the eyes of America. How dare these hussies stand at the president’s doorstep demanding something so menial as a vote when men were dying?

The picket grew violent and women began returning with bruises and cuts, dragging torn signs and sashes. Dorothy did her best to clean them up and repair the banners, listening to Lucy and Alice brainstorm how to approach this new challenge.

And then Lucy got arrested. Mable Vernon as well. It was just three days, but Dorothy had never seen Alice so distraught and enraged than in those days. It made her wonder whether the two women were also more than just ‘dear friends’ to Alice Paul, but she didn’t care to dwell on it.

More and more women went behind bars, all refusing to pay the insulting fine. And each night Dorothy almost obsessively checked the picketing lists for Theresa’s name. For the most part, Theresa’s role had been to use her money and influence to politically sway congress. It would have been counterproductive to send her out there. And yet, as more and more women were carted away, the options grew slim. Alice wanted, rightfully so, no mothers on the line, though some still went. And Theresa refused to sit back and watch.

It came in early October. Lucy Burns and scores of other women were in Occoquan. So, Theresa and four others donned their sashes and the Silent Sentinels took to the gates. Dorothy watched them go with dread. It was selfish, foolish even, but she wished Theresa had stayed back. Had let some other woman, any other woman, go in her stead.

No one had ever questioned that they could not send Dorothy as a Silent Sentinel. Not this diminutive woman with her darker skin and Oriental eyes. But the rules had to be changed, Dorothy thought. And using her skills of being unnoticed, Dorothy slipped out the door, sash hidden in the pocket of her dress. She would not allow Theresa to stand there without her.

“Have you lost your mind?” Theresa demanded in a hushed tone when Dorothy stepped up next to her. “Dorothy, we can’t afford to lose you. Please, go back to headquarters before they come.”

“Dorothy, we’re enough here without you, and Theresa is right. It’s not safe for you,” Maggie Allen said worriedly, eying the growing crowd.

“Not a chance,” Dorothy said, facing forward. Theresa twitched, itching to grab Dorothy’s hand, but she couldn’t. Not here.

The police came. So did the enraged and violent crowds. Dorothy couldn’t help but tremble ever so slightly in the face of such virulent hatred. Always before she’d remained safe and sound behind her little typewriter. But for all that it terrified her, it filled her with a sense of anger and pride. She fought, albeit with poor strength, against the officers who seized her arms, dragging her towards the cart.

She heard a loud shout, saw a flash of red hair. Theresa, taller, stronger, struggled against three policemen, demanding to be unhanded. The charges were false and they knew it. She kept up her demands, in that husky strong voice Dorothy so loved, well after she was thrown into the caged cart with the others.

Sixty days jailed. Sixty days behind bars in Occoquan. They would not pay the fine because they were not guilty.

When they arrived at the Occoquan Workhouse, officials weren’t quite sure what to do with Dorothy. She wasn’t a negro exactly, so they couldn’t place her in a colored prison. But she wasn’t white either. Not wanting to waste any more time on this little bitch of a woman, the superintendent made the executive decision to proceed as usual. And Dorothy and Theresa breathed a sigh of relief.

“Alright, listen up girls,” the matron yelled, brandishing her baton. “All your pretty little things go in here. No exceptions. Shoes, jewelry, purses, those damned sashes of yours. Now!” After giving up their possessions, the six women walked single file, their bare feet vulnerable to the filthy ground.

Theresa, already nearly white on a daily basis, paled even further when the matron smugly ordered them to strip. Even with Dorothy, it had taken her weeks before Theresa could bring herself to disrobe with the lights on.

Though she was shaking, she did her best to hide her reaction from the guards who were all smirking at them expectantly. But Theresa refused to lower her arms as she stood under the frigid spray of water.

The prison only had one bar of soap to go around. Dorothy eyed it disdainfully, refusing to touch the filthy thing. Neither did anyone else.

“We are political prisoners,” Theresa said angrily as the six nude women stood shivering in front of the matron’s inspecting gaze. “We demand to be given our own clothes.” The matron scoffed in amusement.

“You, Red. Front and center now!” the matron demanded with a slow grin. Theresa stepped forward, holding herself even tighter. Her hair hung loosely around her shoulders, dripping and unkempt. The matron seized her arm, spinning her around to face her fellow Silent Sentinels. “Hands at your sides, girl.”

Theresa remained stock still, refusing to move. After a moment, the matron motioned to the two guards and they both grabbed an arm, forcing Theresa to stand fully exposed for her peers. She inhaled sharply, color flooding her white face. Instinctively, she squeezed her eyes shut as her most intimate parts were put on display, but she just as quickly opened them again, proudly looking ahead.

Not one of her sister suffragists let their gaze fall on her exposed body. Not even Margaret Allen, who’d once been in stitched at the thought of what Theresa Starrett kept hidden away under her clothes. No, they all stared blankly ahead and one by one they dropped their own arms. Had Theresa been a more emotional woman, she would have cried at such an act of solidarity.

“Get dressed,” the matron ordered, sneering at the lot of them. The clothes were rough, poorly fitting, and probably not in the least bit clean, but Theresa would have taken anything to cover herself.

She took a risk at looking at Dorothy for just a moment. Dorothy looked back, nodding carefully. Her long braid, soaked and dripping, seeped into the threadbare dress. She kept shivering violently even as the matron led the six of them down a line of cells.

Dorothy saw their fellow sisters encased in filthy and overcrowded cells. The stench was enough to curl her stomach, but she stared blankly ahead, clutching the too-big dress to her freezing body.

The matron shoved her, causing the smaller woman to stumble onto the floor. She gasped as her knees connected with the hard ground. Theresa immediately appeared at her side, helping the small woman to her feet. But they barely regained their balance before the matron pushed both of them into a cell.

“Are you okay?” Theresa asked, feeling how violently Dorothy was shaking. Dorothy nodded, her dress spilling down around her bare shoulders.

“Are you?” Dorothy asked, pushing herself up and off the ground. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Theresa blushed, hugging herself tighter. Behind her, one of the other women in the cell cackled. “You best get used to showing off yo’ tits, honey. Ain’t no privacy around here. Every damn bitch in this hellhole has seen what I got to offer, and soon you’ll be able to say the same thing too.” She kept laughing at Theresa’s horrified expression. “Fucking prissy bitches.”

Dorothy curled even tighter into herself, but kept her face neutral. She would gladly drag herself through hell and back for this vote.

And hell indeed. The workhouse itself was stiflingly hot, and the cells frigidly cold. Maggots infested the poor excuse the prison called food. Lucy Burns, always outspoken, regularly got herself into trouble, and Theresa was right there with her. Neither of them could ever allow the abusive guards to have the last word no matter how much Dorothy quietly begged Theresa to keep her head down. Every time they were returned to their cells, Theresa’s pale skin marred with even more bruises, Dorothy pled with her to no avail.

And then, Alice Paul got herself arrested in solidarity. She barely had time to adjust to the horrible conditions before the prison recognized her as a danger to order even worse than the likes of Lucy or Theresa. They threw her into solitary.

Dorothy would have found it amusing that these guards believed merely separating Alice Paul from the masses could lessen her influence. Word spread of Alice’s hunger strike like wildfire.

“Hunger strike,” Lucy said, shoving her plate of infested slop away. The scraping of plates filled the room. Dorothy, who’d barely eaten anything in all the weeks they were there, gladly surrendered her crackers and bread. She didn’t notice Theresa’s brief look of fear as the taller woman took in her thin and fragile form.

“In Ireland people would starve themselves on the doorstep of those they had grievances with,” Dorothy said, listlessly lying on the hard cot of the cell. “Their stinking corpse would get the message across rather well, don’t you agree?” Theresa made a small noise in the back of her throat. She sat with her back against the cold wall, one hand clinging to Dorothy’s.

It had been days and not a drop of food. Theresa’s pale skin now looked more gray and ashen than anything. Her lips were dry and cracked and any trace of red was due to blood instead of her usual rouge.

“Why?” Theresa asked plaintively. “Dorothy, what good can your rotting corpse do for you? For any woman who looks like you or Barnett. You die and what becomes of your cause? They need you alive.”

She had spent every last shred of her energy begging Dorothy to eat even as she herself refused. She’d taken one look at Dorothy’s already concerningly underweight form and knew her friend, her _lover_ , could not survive for very long.

But before Dorothy could come up with a no-doubt articulate rebuttal, their cell door clanged open. Hands seized both women, dragging them out. Theresa struggled weakly, but her head swam and her vision blurred. A guard had to physically carry Dorothy out.

“No, wait! What are you- let go of her,” Theresa screamed hoarsely. The guards struggled to restrain her much taller form. Ahead, Dorothy saw Lucy Burns being led back to her cell, blood and vomit staining her dress.

“Force feed,” Lucy warned them, clutching the bars of her cell to remain upright. Her voice made Dorothy physically wince. She weakly raised a hand towards her.

Somewhere along the way Dorothy lost sight of Theresa. Being apart sent a chill down her spine. Still, the smile on the doctor’s face as they strapped her weakly struggling body down to the chair, the bright lights nearly blinding her, filled her with an incomparable fear.

Dorothy thought she would be too weak to even react. Too weak to scream. But as the tube down her throat caused her to gag, and her body to panic as she struggled to breathe, Dorothy _screamed_. And somewhere along the lines, Dorothy’s body shut down, protecting itself.

When she woke up she was back on a hard cot, cold hands stroking her hair. Though far more bony than before, Dorothy would have recognized Theresa’s form anywhere. The taller woman sat with her back to the wall, cradling Dorothy’s head in her lap.

“They can’t do this to us,” Theresa argued weakly sometime later after yet another torturous force feeding. “Surely no one has sanctioned this barbaric treatment.”

“They probably have no idea what we suffer,” Dorothy answered, her voice barely audible. “The public never knows what happens behind closed doors. How is Lucy?” Dorothy was so weak these days that she remained in her cell nearly all the time, limiting her contact with the other strikers. She’d heard Lucy, just recently released, had already returned. The raw eggs forced down her throat were the only reason she was still alive. And Theresa couldn’t help but feel relieved.

“She-” A loud crash made Theresa jerk her head towards the source. “Oh, dear Lord.” The doors banged open, and scores of guards trooped down the long hall of cells.

Dorothy struggled upright, suddenly feeling more alert than she had in weeks. She clung to the cell bars, watching as cell bars were wrenched open and guards invaded each one. The screams would haunt her nightmares for years.

She could hear Lucy Burns’ voice distinctly above all others. Could just see her scream and struggle.

“No,” Theresa gasped, rattling her bars. “No! You cannot treat us this way!” Dorothy could only watch in horror as multiple men raised their clubs. “Lucy!”

They beat her. Handcuffed her to her cell, arms raised so high above her head she could barely stand. Even among the chaos, the screams as Dora Lewis’s head collided with the iron bedframe, as Dorothy Day was slammed repeated over the back of a hard iron bench, each and every suffragist who could stand, stood at their doors, hands raised high above their heads.

They did not come for Dorothy and Theresa’s cell. Dorothy didn’t know if she would have survived if they did. Instead, she raised her hands up, crossing her wrists and clinging to the bars. This was the Night of Terror.

All through the night, Dorothy stood. She later claimed the only thing giving her the strength to remain on her feet was Theresa’s solid and comforting presence at her side. She barely registered as women screamed for help. Help for Alice Cosu as her heart gave out at the sight of Dora Lewis lying there, mistaken for dead.

The Night of Terror proved to be their savior, however much pain each and every one of them suffered in those agonizing hours. Word got out. Everything. The treatment, the brutality, the way they were strapped down and nearly choked as raw eggs and milk ran down their throats. When they found out about the network of letters facilitated by Lucy Burns, they took her away, but it was too late. 

Two weeks later, each and every suffragist imprisoned were released. They stumbled from the prison, pale and weak, clinging to each other as they painstakingly made their way to the waiting carriages.

Damned the consequences, Theresa clung to Dorothy the entire way back to headquarters, nearly carrying the sickly woman inside.

“We need food,” Theresa said to the women waiting for them in headquarters. “Something light and preferably not solid. Something we can keep down. Please, hurry! Dorothy needs water.”

Safe in their shared room, washed and fed, Dorothy and Theresa curled up in the soft warmth of Theresa’s bed. Not once, in those long long days, did they allow themselves to show even a scrap of untowed affection. And for the first time, Dorothy did not reluctantly crawl back into her own bed.

Mable Vernon quietly opened the door much later, a small pitcher of water in her hand. When she caught sight of the two women in bed she smiled faintly and backed out, making sure to lock the door behind her. She never told a soul.

It took months of recovery before Dorothy felt even close to at ease again. But that single day of active protests ignited a fire inside of her. She no longer stayed back, painstakingly typing away with inkstained fingers. She continued writing, of course, but no longer remained behind as the others tied on their sashes and took to the White House gates.

In January of 1918, President Wilson announced his support of an amendment putting women’s vote into law. A monumental victory that fell flat as the year dragged on, the amendment finally falling to the senate in October by two votes. It did not stop their momentum.

More and more protesters were arrested, even though the Court of Appeals ruled otherwise. They still had more fight in them, these iron-jawed angels. Dorothy stood in the frigid cold, a brutal reminder of the icy cold cell she resided in once. Only the roaring fire, filled with the words of Wilson, kept her warm. And when she returned home, she had Theresa’s warmth to dispel any lingering chill.

“We need to do something else,” Theresa said during one meeting. “Most of Congress is on our side. We need something to keep our goal in the public eye. Even if Congress passes the amendment, we still need the states to ratify it.” Her time in prison had changed Theresa. Once the voice of caution – of diplomatic reason rather than showy protests – she now embraced this radical way to victory. It didn’t stop her from wearing her red rogue or large hats, but she’d somehow endeared herself to the others and Dorothy no longer heard whispers of judgment about her lover.

The answer they came up with? Burn Wilson’s image in effigy. The satisfaction alone of seeing the figure burn was enough for Dorothy. And, when at long last, after years and years of fighting, Harry T. Burn’s mother granted women the right to vote.

At the NWP headquarters and across the country, women celebrated this step in equality. Dorothy watched from the sidelines, pleased but resigned. She knew what would happen next. Many of them would return home. Return to their lives, happy in the knowledge that they could go to the polls at the next election. Many of them would forget not all women received the right to vote.

Alice Paul didn’t stop fighting for women’s rights. She would go on to spend another fifty years as the leader of the NWP. Dorothy did not stay with her. She had another fight ahead. 1922 saw the denial of her people as citizens, and the denial of the vote. And Dorothy Leighton wasn’t done yet. Neither was Theresa Starrett who remained at Dorothy’s side until her death in 1959, just a few years after Asian Americans were granted the true right to vote.

And though Dorothy despaired at the lost of her lover, she treasured the time they had. Their time in a little home of their own, where they could be as affectionate and loud and loving as they pleased.   

 


End file.
